Dying For A Cause
by sockpuppet82
Summary: Name: Rose White. Age: Twenty eight. Occupation: Dying. I wish it paid better. But then you won't need money once you've died, right? I hope not, because otherwise I'm screwed.
1. First

I walk up to number twelve Grimmauld Place and knock on the door, yelping a little as my knuckles are bruised from the hard oak. I wait, shivering, warmth just a fading memory as no one answers. I can hear them in there laughing, so I pound harder, with my fist this time.

It's Molly that answers and she seems delighted to see me.

"Rose!"

She ushers me inside and quickly closes the door.

"It's utterly freezing outside, I do hope you weren't standing out in that storm for long? The boys have been so loud tonight," she frowns good-naturedly.

"Oh no, I just got here," I lie, giving her a smile.

"It's lovely to see you again dear," she pulls me into a hug and I try to blow her hair from my mouth.

"I was here just last week-" I start, laughing, but then before I can finish there's another pound at the door and Mrs. Weasley is once again pulling it open.

"Emmeline!" I hear her cry.

I relieve myself of my coat and boots and wander into the kitchen, where all the noise is coming from. As I enter, almost everybody looks up. I start to smile when they all look back down and the smile dies on my lips. Oh well, they're busy.

I walk over to the sink to get myself some water, though I'm not at all thirsty. It's so that I can assess the available seats without just standing by the door. There is a seat open next to Ginny, but she has her rather large purse covering the strip of table in front of it, and I don't want to sit down there just for her to say it's already taken, or being saved.

I choose a seat at the corner of the long table instead, next to Mad Eye Moody, who is sitting at the end directly opposite from where Harry and his friends and most of the Hogwarts teachers sit. Professor Snape is opposite me and so far there is nobody sitting on my other side. My fingers tap on my leg as I try not to slouch, while waiting for the Order meeting to commence.

It was not too long ago that we discovered, or Harry discovered I should say, that Snape is still on our side. There wasn't too much opposition to him rejoining the Order. It's been six years since Dumbledore died.

I was asked to join the Order two years ago. It was only because they were low on members, I know this. I am never given any dangerous assignments. The most that I can boast of is tailing people that we _know_ aren't Death Eaters, but have no real proof of such. That and paperwork.

I honestly don't know why people give me so much paperwork. In both the Order, and my actual job. I'm an Oblivator who hardly ever gets sent out to Oblivate people. I'm forced to wonder that if times weren't so bad, would I be sent out at all?

I do know why people don't think I'm capable. But I'm not sure if I can explain it correctly. It's so much easier to just know things without explaining them and putting your ideas and thoughts into concrete words.

I'm shy. And cute. I smile and laugh all the time, and that makes people think that I don't grasp the amount of danger I'm in, especially the Order. But I'm not changing, not for them.

I can't quite explain my personality, mainly because I have no idea what it is myself. I'll give you an example. I once took a very detailed personality test, one that even Mind Healers use. You couldn't be fifty-fifty anything, you were either one thing, or another. I was an Introvert by one percent. One less mark in the Introvert column and I would have been an Extrovert. The text following told me that I'm often mistaken for an Extrovert, especially with my friends, but that I'm _technically_ not. I'd say that's as close to fify-fify as you can get.

Almost everybody thinks that I am sweet, and nice, and soft-spoken. I'm not quite sure. I know that I am in one way, but I also have thoughts that are not sweet or nice in any way.

I can't stop myself from mentally pointing out everyone's flaws, including my own. I think the rudest things about people. Yet I wouldn't dream of saying them out loud to the person I'm thinking about. Only some people can get me to say what I'm really thinking, as long as the people themselves can't hear. I don't feel guilty, even though I think I probably should. Because some of my thoughts are really mean! Like wow-what-a-bitch mean.

I've killed someone before. And I've never once felt bad about it.

How's that for nice and sweet?

When I was sixteen, some low-level Death Eater burst into my home. I don't even think he had the Dark Mark, just the robes, one of those awful masks, and the spell to make the Dark Mark appear over our home.

He was torturing my aunt. I think he might have been drunk, I'm not quite sure. I do know that the attack wasn't at all planned out, because he didn't even know that I was there.

I walked calmly up behind him – he couldn't hear my footsteps over Aunt Emily's screams – until I was close enough that I knew I wouldn't miss. I raised my wand until it was pointing at his lower back and then murmured 'Expulso.' In case you're not familiar with the spell, it causes things to explode. Yeah.

Aunt Emily slumped over, unconscious, as the Death Eater gasped for breath. The spell isn't really meant for humans, so it had only blown a little hole in his stomach. I stood over him until I was sure he was dead, and then I went about assembling my story and putting a shocked and terrified look on my face. I Flooed the Ministry and informed them of what happened, panting and doing my best to sob.

I told them that I didn't even know what I hit the man with, it was whatever came into my mind. I told them to call St. Mungo's because he _wasn't moving_!

I was actually forced to see a Mind Healer for two weeks after that, not that I thought I needed one. But I bought a book on how people act after something like that and did my best to imitate it. I think I did a rather good job.

That is _not_ something a nice, sweet girl does. Trust me.

"Attention," Minerva cleared her throat. She usually does the speaking. I suspect that Harry would feel rather uncomfortable. "_Attention_, Ronald."

Everyone's supposed to call everyone else by their first names now. Although nobody dares with Professor Snape, besides a select few. I think he'd hex Harry if he tried. And vice-versa. Or no, Harry would get back at him some other way. Make him pet a kitten, or something.

I listen as various plans are outlined and the more key members give reports on how their latest assignments have gone. By now Seamus and Dean have sat down in the seats next to me. They are both leaning on the table to see around Ginny - who has moved her bag, I notice.

I try to lean on the table as well, to see around Seamus, but he's sitting with an elbow up, and slouching onto it. I'd need to practically lay down over the table to get around him. I lean back in my chair, hoping that there is a gap between the people's heads that I can use to see the current speaker, but no such luck. There is a solid wall of bodies separating me from them.

I really can't help but feel slightly resentful of Seamus. If I was someone else he wouldn't have leaned forward so far. Certainly Professor Snape is having no trouble seeing, nor anyone else at the table. But that's always been the way things are with me. Pity party in room three.

Moody has noticed, though he notices everything, and I feel rather embarrassed.

"What we _really_ need," squeaks Flitwick, "is for You-Know-Who to think that Harry here is dead. He'll get lax. He'll believe that we're all devastated by the loss, and won't be on guard as much."

It's true that the man has been ridiculously careful. Harry destroyed the Horcrux's before Voldemort noticed, but getting the last bit of his soul, still attached to his body, has proven to be a much harder task.

"Well yes, Filius," Minerva says, slightly patronizingly. "But there is no suitable way to manufacture Harry's death. He just won't believe it."

"Well then let's think of a way," his tiny fist pounds the table. I can barely hear the thump. Poor little shrimp.

"I really believe it to be the only way left. We have exhausted everything else."

This is also true. They've been working horribly hard. And I keep a potion with me all the time now to sooth hand cramps, generally derived from Order paperwork.

People are putting in their ideas, which range from Harry being blown up, to being 'killed' in full sight of lots of people. I can't resist standing up a little to see Harry's reaction. He's looking a bit disturbed.

"Okay, okay," Hermione interrupts. "Stop. The only way You Know Who will believe it is if he can do it himself. Or possibly if one of his Death Eaters does," she adds thoughtfully. "We could try…" she trails off.

"You know, not everyone can hear your thoughts 'Mione," Ron huffs. "We've talked about this, remember? It's only you."

"Shut up, Ron," she says absently. "What if we could get one of his more trusted Death Eaters to think that they've killed Harry? And then he could see the evidence for himself in their mind."

"And how do you propose making said Death Eater believe they've killed Mr. Potter?" Snape raises an eyebrow.

He's looking distinctly unimpressed with the whole thing, though unimpressed is really the only other face he shows besides blank, or angry.

There is silence from the other end of the table and I can only assume she's thinking about it. I can't think of any other way besides this Death Eater actually killing someone.

"Well…" she starts, probably about to say something about modifying memory.

"They'd have to kill someone who looked like Potter," Moody barks and Snape's face fades back to blank. Although it's a rather pleased blank, I think. Maybe he's envisioning a mix-up and Harry actually dying. Or maybe he's a necropheliac. It would explain a lot.

Faces around the table are looking shocked and there is dark murmuring coming from all over. Am I the only one who expected this?

"I agree," Harry says thoughtfully, and Molly gasps. "So we get a Death Eater, Polyjuice him, Imperius him, and stick him in front of Bellatrix Lestrange."

The people's murmurs sound vaguely less disturbed.

"Bellatrix will not _kill_ them, she'll torture them - which would break the Imperius Curse - and then bring them to the Dark Lord. Who would notice, if not right away, that one of his Death Eaters were missing, _Potter_," Snape sneers.

He's really not the most pleasant person. Though I suppose he's not too bad. But then again, he might be a necrophelicac, and I have a generally low opinion of such people.

"So we get a lower-level Death Eater, one that Voldemort," flinches all around, "wouldn't notice missing, and then create a scenario where Bellatrix can either kill 'me' or leave. We could have Order members close behind the fake me. Close enough that she wouldn't have enough time to grab 'me' but far enough that she couldn't get a clear shot at any of them."

The room is silent as everyone digests that, looking for the holes.

"The Dark Lord would notice eventually, even if it was only an unimportant Death Eater," Snape shakes his head. "The information would make his way to him before we had time to act."

"Then we use someone else." I can imagine Ron shrugging. "Umbridge has been causing enough trouble, and she's evil enough. Let's get her."

I hear someone, probably Hermione, smack him on the arm and Molly gasps again.

"And if we can't 'get' _her_, Ron?" I think Remus is using air quotes, his voice hard. "Who else will you deem worthy enough to die? Will you hand pick them? What requirements will they have to meet? How do you judge whether someone is evil enough to die?"

"Alright," Ron sighs, sounding embarrassed and disgruntled. "You've made your point. But then who else can we use?'

"How serious are we about this?" Moody's eye swings wildly.

"Very," Harry says with determination. "We've been talking about this for awhile…" he pauses. "There's just no other way."

"Voldemort," people flinch, he ignores it, "will not slip up until he thinks he's won his battle against me. And people are dying. As we speak his Death Eaters are attacking again and again."

I still can't see him, but I imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose.

"There's no other way," he says again.

"Then we need to get a volunteer."

People break out of their admiration-filled silence to stare at Moody with horror.

"A volunteer?" Harry sounds slightly less certain.

"I agree," Snape nods once. "The Imperius Curse is too risky anyhow. With the slightest torture it could break. Or it could just break on it's own, if the person is strong-willed enough. We can't afford that. We only get one chance at this."

"You want someone to _volunteer_ to get tortured and then killed!?" Molly explodes, rising from her chair so fast that I can hear it tip over.

I'm quite surprised that she kept it in this long.

"It's _outrageous_!" she screams and I sigh. "And inhumane! We'll be just as bad as You-Know-Who himself!"

Settle down, folks. We could be here for a while.

"I don't see why," Moody says calmly, obviously used to this. "They'll be _volunteering_. And nobody needs to get tortured. The Order will be close by. Bellatrix will only have time to kill them and run."

"Oh, is that _all_?" she snarls.

"Molly, shouldn't you let the person decide for themselves?" Snape sneers. "Maybe they'll want the war done with as much as us? If someone volunteers, then you will not be able to stop them."

"And where are we going to find such a volunteer, hmm?"

She sounds slightly hysterical. I'm glad now that I can't see her face, what with the idea sparking in my mind. It's a good idea. Depending on your opinion of good.

"We ask around," Dean shrugs.

"Oh yes, let's go from door to door, asking people if they'd like to be murdered by the most insane person I've ever heard of! Won't that put the Order in everyone's good graces!"

"So let's ask the people in the Order first," Ron shrugs, sweeping a hand around to include the many people squeezed together around the long table.

"Are _you_ volunteering?" Moody looks at him with distaste.

"No." I can practically hear him blanch. "But maybe somebody else…?"

"Ron, nobody in their right mind-" Hermione starts, but is cut off by Remus.

"Some people want this war over and done with, without their families being hurt, Hermione."

I want to voice my thoughts, the ones I've been thinking since this good idea started, but I'm not quite sure how. My voice is odd, you see. It can be rather loud, in the right moments. But as soon as anybody I'm not entirely comfortable with is in the room, it seems to shrink and fade. I'm not quite sure what happens. I'll _try_ to be loud, but it just won't come out that way. It seems to echo from the back of my throat, in too high of a pitch for people to properly hear. It's bloody annoying.

And I never did learn the game of when exactly to cut in to a conversation, as all the others are doing now. I'll open my mouth and then someone else will jump in before me. Or no one will pay attention in the first place. And then there's also the fact that nobody can see me. That's not entirely helpful.

"I just really don't see anyone in the Order volunteering," Molly says, with an air of somebody willing their words to be true.

"I don't think anybody in the Order _should_ volunteer," Tonks cuts in, sounding scandalized. "They're too important!"

"If this goes the way we hope it will, then that won't matter, will it?" Dean says loudly. "Harry'll kill You-Know-Who, and then the rest of us will take out the Death Eaters! One more person won't make that big of a deal!"

"Vell I don't see anyone volunteering, do I?" Fleur contributes, for the first time.

Her accent has gotten so much less noticeable.

"QUIET!" roars Moody, and the table shakes. Everybody shuts up. He takes off the Sonorous Charm and continues. "You lot haven't even _asked_ us if we'd like to die yet. Why don't we just get that out of the way, and _then_ we can go back to the pointless arguing."

I love Moody. In fact, I think he may be my favorite Order member. Good God, if you ever want to laugh, just hang around him for half an hour. Sarcastic humor, much?

"I still think it's really pointless," Molly stands up, shaking her head. "But would anyone like to volunteer to be killed by Bellatrix Lestrange?"

I can finally see her face – Dean has shifted a little in all the excitement – and she looks completely sound in her belief that _nobody_ would volunteer to die.

I calmly stand up, pushing back my chair with a horrible scrape and smile.

"I would."


	2. Second

**A/N: This is edited from what it was before. Not too much changed, though. No need to re-read.**

* * *

"I would."

I am _so_ intensely proud of myself. My voice has lost the annoying faded-out quality it gets around others. It's not exactly _loud_, but certainly much better compared to usual. Score.

I can finally see everyone's faces. They're all turned to me in shock. Normally, in a situation like this, I would have to fight desperately hard to keep from laughing. It's just what I do. I laugh through my tears, awkward moments, at funerals, when someone gets hurt and, occasionally, when something's funny. It's my way of dealing with stress. But right now I'm not at all stressed.

I don't actually think there is such a thing as a _truly_ blank face – although Professor Snape comes pretty close – but I'm not wearing any particular expression as I survey their faces. Just as I don't think I'm feeling any particular emotion.

I kind of scare myself sometimes. I can't really tell what emotion I'm feeling, or if I'm even feeling anything at all.

You know that sort of invisible chamber in your chest where all your emotions exist? At least that's how I imagine it. Well most of the time, I don't feel anything in there. The easiest emotion to enter the chamber is probably sadness. I can get sad over many things, as long as they're properly worded or have accompanying music.

I cried in the first chapter of a book once, as a General in a war was dying. I knew almost nothing about him, but the author wrote his death so poetically and tragically that I was sobbing my heart out.

But other times, when people are sniffing over real life events, I'll automatically say something like 'oh that's _horrible_,' but I won't be able to muster up any real emotion. I don't think, anyway. I can't quite tell.

Another aspect of my personality is my logical side. It makes me wonder if I'm a bit sociological, or just really good at compartmentalizing.

Happiness is pretty easy to feel in the chamber too, but it's usually just the fleeting, smiling-at-a-butterfly kind. Which kind of contradicts the whole idea of the chamber, because it's supposed to be reserved for deep feelings. I'm pretty sure I think too much.

"_What_?" Molly says finally, her words sounding numb. I want to go over and pat her on the shoulder. Tell her no, this is _not_ a dream. Don't bother surreptitiously pinching the inside of your arm. It'll just hurt.

"I really think I'm your best candidate," I tell them, looking the more important people in the eyes.

"Best candidate?" Minerva echoes weakly and I resist the urge to smile. That played out nicely. It gives me a good opening for my speech.

"I have no significant other," I hold up a finger.

"My parents and my Aunt are dead, so I have no family that I am closely connected to, to grieve over me once I'm gone." Another finger goes up.

"I'm not doing any extremely important work for the Ministry, and you don't use me for much more than paperwork here in the Order." Two more fingers rise.

I'm pretty sure I keep my face looking professionally distanced. It's how I'm feeling, after all. I think.

"I will not be missed nearly as much as most of you will, if you decided by some chance to try and take my place, and I am not afraid to die." I have six fingers in the air. "I really think that's quite a convincing argument."

My words are met by silence. There are quite a few dropped mouths. I lower my hands.

I'm pretty proud of myself for making that entire speech without once stuttering or mixing up my words. I try and remember if there's anything else that I missed as the silence gets a tad boring.

"You've shocked them," Luna's voice drifts toward me. "Congratulations."

She doesn't once look at me - she's doodling stick-men on the countertop - but I smile in her direction anyway.

"Thank you," I say. I really love Luna. She's got great hair.

"Is this about you wanting attention?" Hermione says, looking at me as though I'm a puzzle.

"No, it's not," I say coldly.

Okay. Hermione is _not_ my favorite person. It's because of her anal unwillingness to let anyone else help with research that I was pushed to paperwork.

Bitter? Nope, not me.

"And I don't appreciate you assuming so. This is not some childish antic to earn myself the attention of others. This is about me…" I pause, not quite sure how to put it into words. Like usual.

"I _really_ don't want people to continue to die at the hands of Voldemort." A few flinch but most are too shocked. "And I'm really _not_ afraid to die. Of course I'd prefer it if I wasn't tortured," I shrug. "If you can manage that, I'd be most pleased."

"Typical Gryffindor," Snape sneers, looking vaguely unsettled.

Thanks.

"Actually, Professor Snape, I was in Slytherin," I say, failing to hide all of my disappointment.

He peers at me.

"You could not have been."

Ouch.

"I sat under the Sorting Hat for a good five minutes," I nod. "It ruled out Hufflepuff first, said that I just had too many aspects of personality to waste me there. Then Ravenclaw. It was down to Slytherin or Gryffindor, but it decided on the former. Said that while I had bravery, it was always employed along with my 'formidable supply of cunningness'," I air-quote. "Apparently the Hat's taken to making up words in it's spare time."

"I don't remember you," he frowns.

"Obviously," I drawl.

"_No_!" Molly cries, and we all snap our gazes to her. "You're so _sweet_, and _young_, and you- you don't know what you're agreeing to-!"

"Molly," I interrupt her, holding up a hand, as it seems she won't stop. "I do know exactly what I'm agreeing to. I'm agreeing to death. And possibly a spot of torture along the way. It all seems rather simple to me," I shrug nonchalantly.

"Rather…" she goes back to her dumbfounded state.

"Ignoring all the _other_ reasons why you shouldn't do this," Kingsley pinches the bridge of his nose, "do you think you're … emotionally capable?"

I stare at him, uncomprehending.

My feet hurt. I would really like to sit down, but then I'd seem even smaller and more vulnerable. Standing's probably better.

"It's just … I don't want to bring up bad memories but…"

"Spit it out," I shrug.

He doesn't take offense. Nobody ever does. I'm pretty sure they think I'm too cute and innocent to be purposefully offending. It makes standing up for yourself rather hard. Especially when people laugh if you get mad. I think it's made me a bit of a pushover actually.

"I was the Auror assigned to the … incident when you were sixteen…?"

"Yes, that's right."

See, _I_ remember people, even if they don't remember me.

"You were quite distraught."

He looks awkward. I feel a bit powerful. Mwahaha!

"And," he looks around the table, "_that_ was a complete accident."

I suddenly get what he's hinting at.

"Yes, well … that _is_ what the Ministry reports say," I shrug.

My voice, thankfully, lessens the resemblance of that sentence to one off of a daytime soap opera. I say it casually, without much too much emotion or flair. I'm still feeling blank, though that's not too unusual for me.

"I – what?" He looks at me. "It _wasn't_ an accident?"

"I believe that _is_ what I so subtly hinted to," I nod.

"Well – huh." He looks quite baffled. "But you were so distraught."

"I'm lucky that I was so young," I shake my head. "You didn't really consider the possibility of me being anything but distraught, I believe. I couldn't make my hands shake very well."

He stares at me.

"Are you going to tell us what happened?" Harry looks in-between Kingsley and me. I shift my weight to my left foot.

I don't hear Kingsley's response, if he gives one. Snape has captured my gaze and – the tricky little bastard – starts performing Legimency.

It's in my best interest however, to have him know exactly what happened. Maybe I'll gain a supporter. So instead of directing my thoughts to yesterday's paperwork, I start at the beginning, and lead him through.

I wake up to screams. I'm padding downstairs. My wand is lifted. Expulso. The blood is stinking. I may have hit intestines. Um, gross? I stand over him. The life leaves his eyes. I nudge him once, twice. Yup, definitely gross. I assess my Aunt, pick up the Floo powder. The Ministry's here. Tears, sobs, a Calming Draft. My damn hands won't shake unless I hold them up in the air, parallel to the ground. I do this three times overall, and bunch them into a ball the rest of the time. I'm babbling, but my mind is clear. For the first time I'm glad of my tendency to mix up words, and stutter. The vision fades.

I blink.

"That's illegal," I tell him.

He snorts.

"And that wasn't?"

I shrug and belatedly realize that there are, in fact, others in the room. My eyes sweep across their faces.

I sigh.

My legs are going to get very tired tonight.


	3. Third

We sat at the table all through the night. After nearly an hour of my feet aching as I stood, Moody switched seats with me.

It's currently two in the morning and I am not in a good mood.

"For crying out loud!" I groan loudly and everyone stops their arguing. I am not naïve enough to think that's it's because they respect me. They're just feeling guilty.

"If I had thought that dying was this much trouble, I wouldn't have offered!" I am practically pulling at my hair. "Let's take a vote, yes? Everybody who wants to win the war, put up your hands!"

My hand is the first to rise, and I look around at them expectantly. Moody and Snape are the next two to follow. I'm not sure if I should be glad or not but all I can think about is going to bed. Sleep. Oh God, I can feel my eyes closing.

Most of the adults are against it but I can see more than half of the hands around the table raised. I smile in relief. The owners of the hands are looking extremely guilty and I honestly couldn't care less.

"Good," I say, pushing back my chair. "Now I think we can all go to bed. I'll be here tomorrow, for all of you who just have to _have_ their say in this. Yes, Molly, I'm looking at you."

She doesn't look the least insulted, nor does anyone else. I'm glad Harry doesn't look like me. All cute and innocent. He might be a bit of a joke.

"We can talk about it more tomorrow and hash out the details. But for now I'm going home." I yawn. "After all, I don't have many more nights of sleep left in me, do I?"

At this everyone looks ashamed. Except Snape and Moody, but one can never be quite sure of what they're thinking. They'd be exceptional poker players.

"Good night, all." I start to drift out of the door.

"Goodnight Rose," everyone choruses. I chuckle.

I put on my boots and coat and stomp over to the door, opening and closing it. The dining room is silent for a few seconds before everyone bursts out with comments.

I Silencio my boots and a few loud pieces of clothing and creep back to the door to listen.

"_Outrageous_!"

"Ronald Weasley! I can't _believe_ you voted for a young woman to _die_!"

"This is utterly absurd, no one will be dying!"

"Look, she seems really fine with it, and –"

"For goodness sakes, it'll hit her on her way home!"

"So we plan for her continuing to say yes, but still give her an out."

"This is horrid. We're as bad as You-Know-Who."

"He _forces_ people to die, we didn't even expect anyone to say yes!"

"Oh Merlin, I feel so … _unclean_."

"Why can't it be somebody else?"

"Are you volunteering?"

"Well…"

"I think she did make a good argument, you know…"

"What, that nobody would miss her?"

"Well…"

"Ronald, shut up!"

"Of course people would miss her!"

"We'll all miss her!"

"She's really an amazing young woman, this is so _tragic_."

"Nothing's tragic, because nothing's happening!"

"Well it's not as though we're forcing her!"

"Oh, no, we're not forcing her at all! 'This is the only way to win the war,' we say, that's leaving it up to her _completely_!"

I don't hear Professor Snape's footsteps at all. The Order is too loud with all their babbling arguments. I see his shadow at the last second, but there's no time for me to move.

His hand reaches halfway for his wand before he recognizes me. It's dark here, away from the candles and warmth. One of his eyebrows is raised, but he continues on his way. I follow. I've had enough of this.

"I thought you were so eager to go home?"

"I couldn't resist," I shrug. We talk quietly, even though there's not much chance of someone overhearing. I follow him outside into the cold night's air. It's drizzling and I put my hood up so my bangs won't fuzz up like usual. Stupid hair. Sometimes I wish we were all born bald.

We don't say anything more, Professor Snape and I. I'm getting the feeling he's uncomfortable, not that it would ever show on his face. But I think Snape would be appalled at how easy it is to read him when you know what you're looking for. Not that anyone usually does.

I Apperate back to my flat, longing for my bed. A bit too much actually – I end up right in my bedroom.

"Rose? Is that you?"

My roommate, Barbara, comes scampering in, her blue eyes wide. I swear, she is _the_ most annoying person I've ever met. Except for David. Good God, if I ever saw David again I might actually punch him in the face.

At the moment she's dressed in some sort of satin lingerie and a hot-pink fluffy bathrobe with matching slippers. Her hair is curled and bouncing with every step she takes. It's not the only thing that does. I notice she is definitely not wearing a bra.

"Oh thank _God_," she breaths, clasping her hands to her chest. "I thought you were You-Know-Who!"

I hold back the obvious, _why_ would Voldemort care to come here? Then she'd just have an excuse to talk. And if I say His name around Barbie, _Barbara_, then she'll go into hysterics.

"Nope, not quite," I try to smile before turning around to dig in the pile of clothes on my floor for a baggy shirt.

"Well don't scare me like that again, silly!" she simpers, still panting.

"Sorry," I murmur, without bothering to try to sound like I mean it. It's not like she can tell the difference.

"Well anyways," she moves onto my bed and I suppress a groan. "I need to talk to you."

Crap.

"Okay," I say reluctantly, plopping down after her.

Mmm, so soft! Harry should really get softer chairs – near the end there my butt was numb.

"Sooo…" she twists a curl around her finger, lips puckered. "D'you 'member that talk we had back when we first moved in here together?"

I hate you.

"Talk?" I say innocently.

No, no I swear, I'm not having slightly murderous thoughts right now. Really.

"What talk?"

"Oh _you_ know," she sighs, not meeting my eyes.

I'm afraid I do my best to repress our _talks_ from my memory, thanks.

"I seem to have forgotten," I say instead. "What's up?"

"Well y'see … you remember my boyfriend?"

No. What's his name? Knowing Barbie, it's probably Ken.

"Yup, 'course."

"Hewantsustomoveintogether!" she squeals, her words so strung together that it takes me a second to decipher them.

"Oh, that's so great!" I say with extraordinary fake enthusiasm.

"I know!" she hugs herself.

She knows better than to hug me. I'm just not a fleeting, light-pressure type of hugger. Which seems to make it awkward for those that are.

"And that's what I need to talk to you about. 'Member when we promised to never let boys come between us, but never come between each others boys?"

"Um…" I think back. "Sure."

"Well, see, Ken…"

Oh my God. He's actually named Ken. That's just sad.

"Ken doesn't exactly have a flat big enough for both of us, and … well…" she looks at me anxiously, her long, fake eyelashes fluttering.

Why is she wearing fake eyelashes at two thirty in the morning? Does she sleep with them on?

Wait…

"You want me to move out?" I gasp, suddenly struck by what she's stumbling around.

"Oh would you?" she jumps off the bed. "Thank you so much, Rosie! You're just the best!"

I am still sitting there, mouth open, as she bounces out of my room.

"He'll be here tomorrow," she calls back at me.

Tomorrow.

Rage burns inside me. I rip of my clothes and chuck them as hard as I can into the corner. I suppress the urge to trash my room like a pouting teenager, but it's not easy. I lay there, fuming, until my anger slowly drains and I pass out, exhausted.

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**A/N: No, no, not that button ... over to the left ... more ... mooore ... that's right ... over a little bit more .... BINGO! Review!!  
Pff, cookies? Try CAKE!**


	4. Fourth

**A/N: WARNING: contains some pretty gross thoughts :P The kind of thoughts that make you want to bang your head against the wall. Can't tell you what they're about though. :)**

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It is with trepidation that I stand in front of this thick oak door. I can't quite find a reasonable excuse for not wanting to go inside. Maybe I'm tired of all the arguing. Yeah. That's a good one.

I don't bother knocking, just let myself in. But I'm surprised when it isn't locked. Seriously? They go to all the trouble of getting a Secret Keeper and casting the Fidelius Charm and all, and then forget to lock the door? Oh, Harry.

I slip into the library and get a book, a meaningless fantasy called _On the Hogwarts Express_, and plop down in my new seat at the dining room table. After a moments consideration I transfigure an armchair in place of the hard wooden one. _Much_ better. I think I have a bruise on my butt from last night.

I've always loved reading and I start concentrating so solely on the book that I fail to see person after person open the kitchen door, freeze, and then slowly creep away. After about an hour or so of this – I think – Molly comes in defiantly. But I'm still too immersed in the book to notice. She starts making breakfast and I look up at a particularly loud clang.

"Oh," I blink. "Hello, Molly."

"Good morning, dear," she says, her back still toward me.

I sigh and decide to go in search of warmer climates. I should've lit the fire. It's _freezing_ in here. Sometimes I just completely forget about magic, even after growing up around it all my life.

Entering the living room, all conversation stops. I have to say, I don't completely hate it, even if I _can_ feel the awkwardness rolling off them in waves. Normally this scenario would send me running for the hills – literally – but being the person causing all the skittish eye movements is strangely relaxing. And more than a little gratifying, though I try to repress the feeling.

I'm not doing this for the attention, I reassure myself, but it doesn't quite work. It's always been this way. I can make up my mind on the life-altering decisions (or life-ending) but I need outside help for the little ones.

Should I get the blue, or the red? My decision? Well I'm not sure which one I like better … what about you? The blue? Yeah, I think so too.

It's sad and pathetic and I know it. But _you_ try curing yourself of all your insecurities. It's not as easy as one would think.

As I'm thinking all this, I make my way over to a seat near the fire. Hermione, Ron and Remus are sitting almost uncomfortably close by, but I pretend I can't see them, can't see any of them staring at me. Do they think I'm going to burst into tears right here and now? Certainly not. I'd get my book wet.

"Good morning," I say pointedly, without looking up from my book, as nothing changes.

Conversation resumes with hasty awkwardness. I chew on my lip to avoid a smile.

I soon fall back into the pattern of the book and sound drops away as all I see are words and the pictures they inspire. Just sentence after sentence, flowing, melding…

And then I'm brought back to real life with a combination of a spelling error and hushed voices. Hermione and Remus, of all people, should know that hushed voices would bring me out of my haze faster than normal ones.

"-Fine, Hermione, she's doing that thing you do sometimes. I have to practically shake you out."

"_Ron_, just shut up, we're sitting right here!"

"Well it's not like I'm saying anything I wouldn't _really_ want her to hear, is it? I just think it's a little ins- _odd_, then, don't roll your eyes at me! Just think it's a little _odd_ how quickly she offered, s'it!"

"Well … well it's not as though things are finalized, are they? She still has plenty of time to come to her s- um, to back ou- to take it back."

"D'you suppose she went back home and lost it? Fred and George have a pool going. So far there's only three people betting that she'll go through with it."

"Three? That seems like rather a lot. I wouldn't have thought any. Who are they?"

"Three out of 'bout thirty, I reckon. One of 'em's Moody, but I dunno who the other two are. Fred wouldn't tell me, even when I practically begged."

"Thirty? But that's almost everyone in the Order!"

"Yeah, it was a hot topic last night."

"Well _obviously_, I _was_ there. But when did all this gambling take place? I wasn't the first to go to bed."

"The twins went around asking people. Not surprised they skipped you. You'd've just cursed all their recordings."

"…True."

A pause. I keep my eyes flowing across sentence after sentence, turning the page when I run out. But my eyes are blurred and I can't see a single thing I read. It's hard to keep from blushing or smiling – for that's just what I do, remember, - but I manage somehow, keeping all my face muscles carefuly relaxed.

"Why d'you think she's so calm about it?"

"You know, Ron, I was just thinking the same thing."

"Does she _want_ to die?"

"Ros- her? Suicidal? She doesn't really seem like the type. She always seems pretty happy."

"Yeah, I know. Well did'ya ever get the sense that she was, _is_, when you were talking to her?"

"We … no, I … we don't really talk."

"Pff. 'Course you do. You're _girls_. You all talk to each other. Bloody annoying."

"Well we … I don't … I don't know her very well."

"She's been in the Order for, what? How many years now?"

"It was like … um … Remus? Help me out?"

"It is _extremely_ rude," Remus says instead, "to gossip about someone when they're sitting three feet away."

"Thanks, Remus," I lift my head and smile at him smoothly. "I think I'll just check on breakfast." I walk out of the room, leaving those that heard, wincing and Hermione and Ron dumbstruck.

"I _told_ you not to talk about her!"

"Ow! Bloody hell, no one made y-"

The door swings shut.

I've always loved making a good exit. Or showing off my skills. When I was young, I would always insist on telling everybody exactly how I did the card trick, while _they_ would urge _me_ to keep quiet. I'd make a horrible spy.

I honestly don't know how Professor Snape and Draco do it. Which reminds me, Draco's coming this afternoon. Joy. _Anther_ person to say 'are you _sure_?' and 'you know, you don't _have_ to do this.'

But then again, Draco's not very interested in me. I don't think he could be interested in anyone but Harry. It'll be such a shock for everyone when they realize.

"Hey, Molly," I lean against a countertop. "Need a hand with breakfast?"

"Oh no, dear, that's fine," she turns her head to the side halfway to answer. Still can't see me. "I'm actually just about done, would you mind calling the others in?"

"Sure."

Ron and Hermione don't look up as I stick my head back into the room. Four different conversations cease instantly and the other trails off awkwardly.

"Breakfast's ready!" I trill.

Ahh, is it ever nice to be me right now. If I was born as one of those poor unfortunate souls that can't look up from their kippers right now I just might kill myself.

Oh.

Well kill myself faster then.

"Hey, does anybody know where Moody is?"

Normally you'd have never been able to hear me over the noise of the Weasleys, but now it's so silent that you could hear a Flobberworm swallow.

It's silent until Molly says, "Oh he never eats breakfast here, dear. I believe he prefers to eat at his home as much as possible. Especially since the Triwizard Tournament fiasco."

"But wasn't he ambushed at his home?"

It's very odd speaking to each other like this. She's sitting near Harry, at the opposite end of the very long table from me, and yet we can hear each other perfectly. I've finally caught the awkward bug.

"I asked him the same thing," she says with a strained little chuckle. "But he just muttered something about increased security."

Several people around the table shudder.

"Oh," I laugh, slightly awkwardly. We lapse back into silence.

Professor Snape's sitting beside me. He lifts up a piece of sausage to bite into it and it sticks into the air at a certain degree that makes my mind wander into disgusting territory. Snape with a boner. Gross.

I wonder what brings one on for him? I wonder if I've…

No. I am not going down this road. Aaand _cut_.

I wonder what it looks like?

Stop it! Shut up!

He looks like someone who'd be big.

Be. _Quiet_.

But then again, he is rather skinny. Maybe the rest of him is too?

Well there's _no_ way I can eat the rest of my dinner now.

All shriveled…

I'm going to throw up.

My mind can be so _disturbing_! I actually slap myself sometimes, just to stop _thinking_. And bang my head against the wall. I've gotten bruises.

It's like there's an unknown little entity in there, whispering to me, tainting me with its dirty or spiteful little thoughts. It's not how I _act_, I would never ever do some of the things I think about.

Take, say … jumping off a cliff. I'll stand at the edge and think … what if? What if I just ran and jumped, right now. And I can see it in my mind, so clearly that I get scared that I might actually do it. Just forget that the image in my mind isn't reality and go for it. Not that that's ever happened yet.

I wonder if I have some sort of split-personality disorder? I shouldn't rule it out.

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**A/N: III warned you!! :) **

**PLEASE review!? I've gotten like none!! Okay, eleven. But ... :(**


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